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Wednesday, July 16, 2014

"With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable.
Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like
spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.’[She] stares into Peeta’s eyes, hanging on to his words. ‘One
time, I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for
sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it
was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of color. One by one. I haven’t
figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I
never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of green here or purple
there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air,’ he says Peeta.

She seems mesmerized by Peeta’s words. Entranced. She lifts up a
trembling hand and paints what I think might be a flower on Peeta’s
cheek.

The White Room

Charles Simic, 1938

The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me—
And then didn’t.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn’t leave her room.
The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,
Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as “perfect.”
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn’t it.
Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light—
And the trees waiting for the night.